


Soft at Heart

by magikfanfic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9400754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: There were three things that Chirrut had known almost his entire life: that he was blind, that he was a Guardian of the Whills, and that he was in love with Baze Malbus. None of them meant any more or less than the other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: So people are awesome and have created some absolutely stunning fanart for this piece, which I thought I'd link here because not everyone tumbles. Feel free to go show them some love too.
> 
> [Art done by Normurdar](https://normurdar.tumblr.com/post/156379858206/the-way-i-imagined-a-scene-of-soft-at-heart-by)
> 
> [Art done by Kannibal](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/159023495259/its-okay-youre-okay-the-force-is-with-you)

There were three things that Chirrut had known almost his entire life: that he was blind, that he was a Guardian of the Whills, and that he was in love with Baze Malbus. None of them meant any more or less than the other.

The blindness was not all at once, but it was always at the corners of his world, pressing in. Chirrut had never seen a world that was not slowly being taken away. The Masters thought that maybe this was why he had ended up on the steps of the temple when he could not have been any older than four; they never asked him. The Masters were used to finding strays on their steps, sickly or unwanted, young or almost adults, and they had long since stopped asking why they had come to them. They found that it was easier for the children if they just accepted them with open arms, told them that the Force had brought them there as the Force flows and directs all life in the galaxy. It was the first step of their training, their first introduction to the Force, a kind, benevolent thing that brought them to salvation and comfort and care. It made it easier to start there and then introduce the harder concepts as their time at the temple progressed.

Chirrut Iwme was different. It was not just the blindness although that was obvious from the start, from the cloud at the edge of his vision, the days when things faltered and got very far away. It was only a matter of time. The Guardians did not have much in the way of formal medicines or money, but they had herbs and ancient knowledge and a way of slowing the loss of his eyes even though they could not cure it. Another boy might have been upset that there was not more to be done. That was what they prepared themselves for when they went to explain the situation to him.

Three of the Guardians found the boy in the rock garden where he was supposed to be cleaning the paths but was instead practicing handstands and tumbling, graceful but also so clearly fixated, focused. Chirrut tended to learn things twice. Once with his eyes open and then again with them closed, and he would do both steps as many times as he needed to until he learned, even if it meant that he hurt himself. He would not falter once he had gotten it into his mind that he was going to do something.

And, unlike the other acolytes, Chirrut would not just stop what he was doing when the higher members of the order found him; he would make them wait until he was ready to receive them. So they stood, watching him for a moment, faces grave. “Chirrut,” one of them finally said when it was obvious that the boy was not going to acknowledge them on his own.

“I knew you were there,” he insisted when he turned to them after righting himself out of the last handstand, panting from the exertion of the exercises. 

At another time, they would have chastised him about not doing his chores. There would have been a lengthy discussion about how practice was good, but not when it came at the expense of doing what was expected of him. Sweeping the paths was important as it taught care and respect. Instead, the older of the Guardians, the one who had spent the most time teaching the boy, said, “Chirrut. There is something we need to tell you.”

“It’s not going to stop,” the boy cut him off, tone flat and unlike him. Chirrut was a handful, a bag of energy at all times, but cheerful. A pleasant, knowing, cheeky little boy. That disposition of his, the way that he could turn a phrase, had kept him out of quite a lot of trouble. None of that starlight was in these words.

The man gestured to his companions to leave them even as he knelt down so that he was closer to the boy’s level. “No, we cannot stop it. We can slow it. The Force.”

“Is not fair!” Chirrut interjected, panic and uncontrolled fear present in his tone and the gathering of water in his eyes, already so dim at the edges. It was an ulikely outburst from the him, but not unexpected considering the situation.

The older Guardian’s mouth pressed into a line, and he nodded. It was true. “The direction the Force take us is not always fair, Chirrut. That is very true. This, however, does not mean that it is not a path, and that we are not better for following it. The Force knows why it directs us on the path that is does. Faith is about believing in that path even if it is not always what we wish.”

There was an instant where the Guardian thought the boy would cry, and he was prepared to comfort him. It would have made sense, considering the information that he had just delivered. He waited, still crouched low, one hand hovering, almost placing itself on the child’s shoulder. Chirrut, though, seemed to have decided that one moment of failing, faltering hurt was enough. He wiped away the tears forming in his eyes, straightened his shoulders, and nodded, once. “I understand. It is the will of the Force.” 

“It will not be all at once,” the Guardian insisted.

Chirrut looked at him, and reached out, placing his hand on the older man’s as though he was the one in need of comfort, as though he were the one who had just been given the devastating news that his eyesight would continue to trickle away from him. “It’s okay. It is the will of the Force. I am one with the Force.”

Then he stepped away from the man and the hand that was still there, hovering in the air, waiting for the moment when he could impart wisdom. Chirrut stepped away from potential comfort, turned to himself and his own faith, the smile on his face again. “I will sweep the paths. I am sorry for not getting to my chores first.”

In the end, all the Guardian could do was stand there for a moment, watching as the boy went about his duty as though nothing in the world had changed.

This was how it always seemed to be with them and Chirrut. Whatever kernel of knowledge they went to impart, he already knew. It made him difficult to train, though not impossible. He was simply too knowing and too wild all at the same time. That one small break, that one tiny stumble, was all they had seen of him being upset at the prospect of going blind. The rest of the time he practiticed diligently. He was always at the top of his classes despite the amount of mischief he made. And he always seemed to know things as though the Force lingered at his side, whispering in his ear like a mischievous playmate.

By the time he was thirteen, Chirrut considered himself a full-blown member of the Guardians of the Whills. He had advanced so quickly that his progress thoroughly astounded some of the older masters, the ones who thought he was too impulsive, too quick witted and willful. Some of the others, those who knew him better, believed that he was chasing the path so quickly because he wanted to surmount the task before his eyes faded away altogether. They were already so cloudy that he had taken to using a staff around the temple. If anyone asked him about it, he simply joked that the Force wanted him prepared to defend the temple at any moment of time, but they knew. It was not just about that. Chirrut, who could sense the Force so much more than any of them, had no idea when his eyes might go forever, and this was how he made himself feel secure. No one could blame him.

 

Baze Malbus was fourteen when the Guardians found him. The boy was big for his age, tall and solid even though it was obvious that he had been living rough for the last few weeks. His hair was snarled, eyes wild, and he was completely silent. It didn’t seem to matter who they sent to speak with him or what they said, he never responded verbally. Some of the Guardians began to wonder whether he might be mute. They had found him hunkering around the temple, his eyes on the walls but filled with a spark that they recognized. They had offered him safety, food, and warmth. The boy had followed them warily as though waiting to see whether one of them might lash out at him at any moment.

Despite the silence, he was quick to pick things up. Since they had no name for him at that time, he was simply, “the boy.” It was never said in any way other than gently because they could recognize trauma when it stood in front of them.

It did not surprise them when Chirrut showed up in the door of the training room one day while they were teaching the boy about meditation and the will of the Force. It did not surprise them when he walked, carefully, so carefully, which was a sign of a bad day for his eyes, to sit next to the newcomer and reach over, delicately, to adjust his hands and his posture. “Like this,” he said. “Just like this.”

The boy listened, the boy allowed Chirrut’s hands on him, and though he watched him warily it did not seem as if he was waiting for him to strike. No, he was just looking. They were nearly the same age, though Baze looked much older, and Chirrut looked younger, slighter and in need of protection, which could not have been further from the truth, but there was no way to know that just by looking. Maybe it was that fact that broke the silence he had wrapped himself up in, the idea that here was someone who might need his protection, the idea that here was someone who could be his friend. 

Or, maybe, as Chirrut would say when the Guardians asked him later, it was just the will of the Force.

“Like this?” the voice came, low and scratchy and unused. So much older and world weary than anyone had expected. The eyes, deep and sad, under all the hair that he had not let anyone touch yet, watched those of the other boy as he adjusted himself to match Chirrut’s posture.

The smile on Chirrut’s face was wider, broader, than normal. “Yes. Just like that. You’re perfect now.” With a nod, he started to repeat his mantra, barely more than a whisper, like the murmur of a stream over rocks, something the other inhabitants of the temple had gotten used to over the years. Almost everyone else prayed in silence, but Chirrut had always done it aloud. “I am one with the Force. The Force is with me. I am one with the Force. The Force it with me.” Over and over, a blanket of words, heavy and comforting. 

The other boy, the one who they now knew could speak, picked up the words a few repetitions in, his much deeper voice seeming to fit in perfectly with Chirrut’s as though they should always have been together. “I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.” And maybe his voice shook, and maybe it was hoarse. Maybe he was only able to speak for a handful of moments before it was all too much, and he had to fall into silence, lips moving in perfect time, but it was still a sign.

The Guardians put the boys together. They told Chirrut that he was to be master to the new boy because the Force had obviously willed it. “I know,” Chirrut said, all bright eyes and bright smiles and just brightness. He was practically radiating with light, a talent he had always possessed, but was more incandescent than usual.

It was not a traditional move. The new boy, who had still not spoken his name and did not speak to anyone but Chirrut, normally would have been assigned to an actual Guardian of the Whills instead of to one in training, but they were wise enough to know that exceptions needed to be made. The boy needed to feel safe, and he felt safe with Chirrut. Chirrut, with his ever failing sight, would eventually need someone to assist him. If they could foster a bond now, it would be beneficial to both of them. Chirrut, of course, could navigate the entire temple with his eyes closed, and had done it before to show off. He could fight with his eyes closed. He had shown that he was prepared for the day that his eyes dimmed out forever, but preparing was not the same as being. Right now he could always. Open his eyes. One day that option would be gone, and he might not be as prepared as he had anticipated.

The boy was not moved into Chirrut’s quarters. Slowly he infiltrated himself into them, unfolding one thing at a time like a flower. Chirrut never seemed to mind, though he took great pleasure in pointing out when something was out of place because the boy never liked that. Organization was not one of Chirrut’s strengths. There was always something he wanted to do that was more active than cleaning, but the boy seemed to delight in it. It gave him something to do with his hands, and a focus outside of what existed in his head. The cleaning, the making sure everything was just so became as much a part of him as the mantra, and it was not uncommon to find him murmuring the words to himself, the same way that Chirrut did, while cleaning. 

It took another week before Chirrut was able to worm his name out of him. They were in the quarters, sitting, praying, when Chirrut opened his eyes and stopped chanting. It took the other a moment to notice and then glance up, a question clear on his face. Chirrut had already noticed that the boy could say pages without opening his mouth. It was all in the lines of his face, the way his eyes would widen a bit or the quirk of his lips. He would miss that when his sight went completely. It was a strange and unbidden thought, especially considering the short amount of time that they had known each other.

“What’s your name?” Chirrut was demanding but gentle, as always. “I’m Chirrut. You know that, but we haven’t been properly introduced.” He did not continue to point out that the reason for that was because the boy had never offered up his end.

“Baze,” the word was a rumble, barely loud enough to count as more than a clearing of the throat. 

“Baze,” Chirrut repeated, feeling the name out, testing the sound of it in his mouth, liking the way it seemed to flow through his own body as well. He quirked an eyebrow at the other as though expecting more because he was. It made Baze, newly named, flush and turn his face away, hide it in his hair, which was unruly and tangled and everywhere still. One thing at a time, Chirrut reminded himself. Rushing too fast could scare someone away, but he had a feeling that it would be harder to scare Baze away than that. Something prickled in the Force when he was nearby. Chirrut knew that Baze could feel it, too, even if he was not able to put it into words.

There was no continuation of speech just a long sigh, a huff of air that seemed exasperated and expected. Thinking that it might be over, Baze picked up the mantra again, his voice low and soft and rumbling. Chirrut wanted an excuse to press his ear against Baze’s back and feel how that noise sounded inside his body. He had an idea that might be the best way to hear the other boy.

“Your hair,” he started, breaking into the other’s concentration again, earning another puff of air. “It should be shorn.” The expression that he was faced with made him put his hands up. “It’s tangled. Maybe I can brush it out.”

Baze cut his eyes from side to side as though he were looking for one of the older Guardians, prepared for someone to jump out and chastise them for not praying, not being focused, not being devout. It was only them in that room, just them. Just himself and the younger, smaller, slowly going blind boy who knew too much and was too heady and too bright. The boy who shone like a star. The boy whose orbit he did not want to pull himself away from. And Baze didn’t know what all of that meant other than he was safe here. He was okay here.

“I’ll be careful,” Chirrut added, though he knew that Baze knew he would not hurt him. Without ever having discussed it, they both just knew.  
Without a word, Baze shuffled closer and repositioned himself in front of Chirrut, back to him. There was tension in his shoulders, an unspoken fear or anxiety about something. Chirrut wasn’t sure what it was, and he prodded at the Force, trying to untangle the knot, trying to make it loosen and divulge its secrets to him. Chirrut Imwe did not like not knowing. He could be impatient and headstrong. It had gotten better as he got older, but there was a part of him that always wanted to know right then without the waiting. The Force, however, was not being easy tonight. It was heady and confusing and thick. It was everywhere around them, and Chirrut wanted to tug on one of Baze’s ears, gently, and ask if he could feel it now, if he was drowning it in as he was, but he did not.

Instead he raised his hands to Baze’s head and began the task of coaxing out the knots and the tangles. There were many, but his hair was still far softer than Chirrut had imagined. Some of the tangles turned out not to be tangles at all but braids that no one was caring for anymore. He started on the left side, right at Baze’s temple. The process was slow and gentle and long. Baze had a deceptively large amount of hair, and Chirrut was fastidious about freeing every single piece of it. He undid each brand, unwrapped each strand, brushed out the debris that had collected in the time before Baze had come to them. Every inch felt like a question asked and then answered without a word hanging in the air between them.

“Tell me if it pulls,” he said, but Baze just shrugged and made another one of those low noises that Chirrut swore he could feel more than hear. Reaching his fingers through the hair, he brushed the tips across the edge of Baze’s ear. That got the other boy’s attention, and his spine went straight. It was obvious that he wanted to pull away, retreat to another corner of the room or even stomp off. 

Baze didn’t seem to get mad so much as he got huffy. Something would displease him, and he would go to sulk in a corner with his arms crossed or clean whatever he could find. Chirrut wondered what it would be like to see actual anger in him, though he imagined that it could be dangerous. Not to him, though. He knew that Baze would not hurt him. The boy was much more likely to hurt himself. That was another unspoken truth, and one that Chirrut did not care to linger on.

“What happened?” he asked, fingers letting go of the ear without apologizing, without even really acknowledging that he had done it. Instead he let his hands drift back to working through the strands of hair, losing himself in that work. Was this how Baze felt when he cleaned? Completely wrapped up in a task, in the weight and mundanity of it. This, however, was not as mundane as sweeping the paths. This was almost. Intimate seemed to be a good word to Chirrut. 

There was a moment when Baze hunched his shoulders when Chirrut thought that was it. That was the moment he had broken it all, and those invisible threads of the Force that seemed to have danced around them and wrapped them together perfectly would come undone, just be snapped, and he was not sure that he could handle what that meant, but he also couldn’t retrieve the words now that they have been set loose. Baze, however, did not go. He simply made another one of those deep, long sounds, though this one seemed sadder, more resigned. “Everyone died. I could not do anything. I was alone. I didn’t know what to do. So I came here.”

Sadness flooded the room, stained the Force, stilled Chirrut’s hands from their work in Baze’s hair. The only sound was their breathing, fast for different reasons. Baze was shifting, as though he were still considering getting up or leaving or doing something, and Chirrut’s hands slipped through his hair to rest on his shoulders. From his shoulders, they continued down until he had wrapped himself around Baze’s neck and torso, cheek pressed against his upper back, fingers patting the robes over his heart. And Baze wept, as silently as he did anything. If he had not been slung over him like a pack, Chirrut would have never even known, that is how quiet the larger boy could be.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. The Force is with you,” Chirrut whispered, over and over. Then the words changed. They changed without him even fully realizing it. “I am with you, Baze. I am here. I have you.”

The comfort descended like a heavy blanket to wrap them both. In each other. In the Force. In an inexplicable knowledge that they were linked through and through. Chirrut worried that it would be too much too fast, but Baze seemed to still from it all. If he could even sense it. Baze had never made any indication of feeling the Force in the keen way that Chirrut could, but he did believe it in. That much was obvious.

Chirrut held Baze long past the time when he had stopped weeping. Eventually Baze crossed his arms on his chest in such a way that both of his hands could press over Chirrut’s to complete the circle of comfort. Nothing needed to be said. They just sat like that until one of them finally moved to prepare for bed, breaking the spell that had been woven so carefully.

Chirrut was perhaps not the best teacher, but being Baze’s actually made him better. The two of them complemented each other, each pushing the other further in their training and faith. Chirrut might have been the one with the most Force sensitivity, but Baze was held up as the more devoted of the pair. If the Guardians had been pressed, though, they would not have been able to say whether it was the Force that Baze was so adamantly devoted to or if it was Chirrut. Some of them whispered in low voices about whether it was good idea for the boys to remain together when they were obviously already so deeply bonded. The general consensus was that trying to separate them would have only ended in disaster. 

Probably in the form of both Chirrut and Baze soundly taking out whichever member of the order suggested it without even breaking a sweat.

 

It was several months after Chirrut turned sixteen that his eyes left him. The dimming had been increasing with each passing day, but he had held on as tight as he could. Yes, it was the will of the Force, and yes, he knew that he should not fight it, that it was vain. But he wanted his sight. For a completely selfish reason. He wanted to see Baze. He wanted to watch his friend, his ward, his brother, this person who had grown to mean so much so quickly, grow and develop. He wanted to be able to watch those dark eyes for signs of things the man would not say, and he wanted to watch the slow smiles, the shy ones that he would tip his head to hide away. Chirrut mourned the loss of this more than the fact that he would not see the sun again. There had been sixteen years of sun, and it had been beautiful, yes, but it was not as captivating and ever changing as the landscape of Baze’s subtle expressions.

He had gone to the infirmary. No, Baze had taken him. He had woken up, unable to see anything and gone for his staff, sure of where it had been, only to discover that it was not there when he crashed to the floor. And Baze, worried and startled, had taken him right to the medics despite his protests. They had confirmed what everyone knew was coming all along, that Chirrut’s sight had deteriorated to the point that the herbs and salves could no longer hold the blindness at bay. 

The age of his being able to see had passed. 

They checked him over to make sure that he had not hurt himself in the fall, and then Baze took him back to their room, quieter than normal, one arm looped in Chirrut’s, holding so lightly but firmly that Chirrut was positive that no harm would ever come to him so long as Baze was there. It wasn’t until they were back in the room that either of them said a word, and it fell to Chirrut to speak first. He was used to that. Baze, once started, could talk for quite a while, but he needed some prodding to get himself out of his own head.

“At least now I finally have an excuse for letting my robes get dirty. Oh, Master, I had no idea. No way of knowing. I thought they were presentable for the best company. Please forgive me,” he joked, carefully moving from the bed to sit on the floor, one hand skimming over the stones in a circle around him, looking for Baze. He could hear his friend breathing so he had not left the room, but he was having trouble actually locating him.

“Now we can always be early or first in line for things if you want. I know that you hate waiting in line at meals. I am sure we can use this to our advantage there,” he continued, undeterred by the silence, though the longer it continued the more worried he became. What if Baze no longer wanted to stay with him now that the curtains had finally fallen over his eyes completely? What if he decided that Chirrut had nothing else to teach?

That thought stuck in his throat, almost choking him with the heaviness. The others in their order would have told him to pray, but Chirrut did not want to pray. He did not want to sit there and reflect on the Force and quiet his mind. His mind was spinning. He was frightened, and blind, and alone despite being in the same room as someone he already trusted in completely. Getting to his knees, he started to progress around the room. “Baze. I do not want to play this game.” His tone had lost some of the mirth that had been in it earlier. It was raw and a little short, as though he were going to scold him. 

And then hands reached out to catch his from where they had been scrabbling in the air, seeking purchase. Big hands with long but clever fingers, familiar calluses and scars. They were so big, Baze’s hands, so strong, that Chirrut thought he could probably shelter the whole world in them. Those hands matched the heart beating inside the chest. Baze was gruff, and quiet, and grouchy, yes. He mumbled and growled sometimes when he was tired or a situation was bad, but he was soft at the heart of him. He was soft. And Chirrut remembered the crying. Remembered wrapping his arms around a broken boy who had lost everything and been found. When Baze finally reached out to him, he could feel how much love there was in just a touch. This was the same man who could match him blow for blow in training, and caught up to his level in just a handful of years. He was a powerhouse wrapped around a bleeding, broken heart. Walls to keep the treasure safe.

Protect me, Chirrut wanted to say, for he was blinded and covering the loss with his own jokes. Little humors that died in the air between them. Soothe me, he wanted to shout. Not just at Baze, who would not have deserved it, but at the world. The great, wide world that had done so many terrible things to the both of them over the years.

And Baze held his hands with his own. Chirrut heard him move closer, sliding across the floor to meet him. Those moments, stretched out, pulled into forever, made him wonder how large their room was, after all. It had never seemed so large before. Then Baze leaned his forehead against Chirrut’s, and they were breathing in tandem, calming each other down. Chirrut had not even been aware that his heart had been racing, and he had been panting until that moment.

“I have you,” Baze said, echoing those words that Chirrut had said to him not that long ago.

Chirrut started to cry, feeling overwhelmed by the events of his life for the first time in his life. As though Baze had blessed him with the ability and the safe space to do so. “I will never see you again. I will forget what you look like.” The words were choked, and he was worried that they might scare Baze away. It was such a raw sort of statement. He wasn’t even sure what he meant by it himself so he hoped that his friend did not ask for an explanation.

It was impossible not to hear the catch in other man’s voice as though the words caused him physical pain. Baze lifted their hands, placing Chirrut’s on his face, and then settling his on Chirrut’s knees. “There. Look as long as you like. Whenever you like.” Chirrut passed his fingertips across the edge of Baze’s lips, which quirked into a slight smile at the touch. 

“Your ears are just as big,” he teased, when he found them, tugging gently at the lobes and then running his fingers up the edge of the shell into Baze’s hair, which was still just as thick. Only now it was kept, brushed and braided daily. Chirrut knew where each one of the braids were because he had put them there. One of their other little rituals, one of the other ways to calm Baze down other than meditating was for him to sit in front of Chirrut while he braided and finger combed his hair. 

His fingers were working too hard to map out the world of Baze, make sure that he had not missed something, some little change in the span of time between the day before when he could still dimly see and today when all was dark. He was too enthralled in learning all the little things again, that he had not picked up on the way Baze’s heart had started pounding fast and how his breaths were fast, quick and shallow. If Chirrut had been paying attention to anything other than reassuring himself that the other was still there, solid and real and just like he remembered him, he might have caught the switch. 

As it was he was caught off guard when lips slipped across his, dry and just barely there. He pulled back, blinking, mouth moving even though no sound came out. His hands were still caught in Baze’s hair, the braids having snagged him to hold him there, keep him close. Baze’s hands, on his knees, were drawn into fists, and he was holding his breath, seemingly waiting to see what would happen, if the world would end. Chirrut, once again, wished that he could see Baze. One of his hands trailed out of the thick forest of hair to slide down the other’s face, tracking across his features, and he knew. He knew he was scared, and wondering if he had done something wrong. 

Instead of saying anything, Chirrut just cupped his cheek and leaned in to kiss him back. The first attempt missed, and he caught only the side of Baze’s lips, which pulled into a grin. “Why did you let me miss?” Chirrut complained when he leaned back. The only answer was Baze fisting his hands into Chirrut’s robes to pull him flush against him, lips sure and firm this time, as though he was the one who could see and feel the Force, as though he knew that this was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world in that moment.

Chirrut’s protests of having been allowed to miss melted away at the touch of those lips, and then the slow exploration of a tongue into his mouth. Chirrut moaned into the contact, the hand on Baze’s cheek slipping down to his neck while the other tightened into his hair until Baze was making those deep, chest noises. These, however, were not unhappy or gruff; they were full of blazing light and want and contentment. 

 

When they became Guardians, it was together. Despite the fact that Chirrut had been there for years, Baze had caught up so quickly, learned so well, and was so devoted that there was no reason to keep him in training. Not only that, but he had been spending the last couple of years helping Chirrut retrain himself after his sight left him once and for all. 

Those were hard days when Chirrut worked himself too many hours, pushed too hard to get back to his former level. Baze had been there for each step of it, begging his friend to take it easy on himself, though Chirrut, stubborn as he was, never listened. 

It crossed Baze’s mind a lot during those years, whether they were just friends or something more. They never discussed it, though it would linger on the tip of his tongue almost every single time they were alone together. At first he was afraid to bring it up, scared that Chirrut would make one of his jokes and laugh it off without really answering. Not because he believed that Chirrut would be cruel but just because his friend always took things in stride. If they were kissing, they were kissing. What if that was all it was to him? To Baze, it was the world. It was more than the world, actually. It was the Force, and all the light in the galaxy; it was serenity, the kind of peace that he had never before known in his life. He was terrified that Chirrut didn’t feel the same way that he did, and he didn’t want to know because he didn’t want to lose what he had by trying to take more. So he was quiet about it, and just threw himself into accepting and loving what he was given.

What he was given was beautiful, after all. It was not just the physical intimacy, though he loved that. It had not taken Chirrut long to discern that Baze was touch starved, which led to him taking full advantage of it whenever he could. The touches were no longer the chaste hand on his shoulder or the friendly hugs; now there were fingers that would sift through his hair to brush along the nape of his neck or a hand on his thigh when they were in the middle of prayers. And Chirrut took full advantage of his new-found blindness to explain them all away if it suddenly became apparent that there might be other people around.

Baze learned how fiercely and thoroughly he could blush. Together they learned which nooks and crannies in the temple were secluded enough for kisses and wandering hands for those instances when there was not enough time to get back to their room. Chirrut was bold, openly affectionate both physically and in words. Baze, as usual, was silent and reserved and, as Chirrut liked to tease him, so stoic in everything. 

Yet it was Baze who felt as though he were drowning in the thick blanket of his love for Chirrut. It was love. He was certain of that. He had fallen before he even knew what it was to be in love. When he looked at it now, it had started off as fascination, his attraction to Chirrut. Had it stayed there, he might have been able to shake it off eventually, but now it was an intrinsic part of his person. Baze had no idea who he would be without the other man. From that moment Chirrut had held him while he cried, Baze had been his. Even before he knew it logically, his heart and his soul had known.

Which meant that the Force should know.

When the day had been particularly strained, and the words were right there, pushing against his lips even as those lips trailed over Chirrut’s neck, Baze would pray in a selfish, needy, greedy way. He would pray for the Force to let Chirrut know how much he loved him without him having to say it. If the Force told, it would not be him begging with his hands and heart open, risking being burned if the answer was not what he wanted it to be. It would be him giving that desire to the powers in everything, and them telling him no. At least that was what he told himself in order to feel a little less like a coward.

They were such simple words, and he was a strong, capable, trained man. A strong man with big hands and large ears, trained to fire a gun and hold a staff and kick someone in the face multiple times who could not say such simple words to the man who meant everything to him. It made him feel small, this lack in him, this inability to surmount that obstacle.

It was so much easier to throw himself into helping Chirrut overcome his newest obstacle and just leave everything else to the Force. It became enough to get lost in those kisses and caresses and all the other things that Baze was surprised Chirrut, who had grown up in the temple, was so adapt at. Not that Baze had any other experience. They were each other’s first. All the fumbling fingers, impossible angles, and frustrating missteps were taken together. All of these things only cemented Baze to the man more.

Together they figured out ways to get Chirrut’s skill back to where it had been before his eyes went. His body knew the motions, but despite having spent time training blindfolded and with his eyes closed, it was not the same thing. The spaces were different. He had to listen more, both with his ears as well as with the Force. Even that combination hadn’t been enough, and Baze couldn’t live watching him get so frustrated and upset with himself. Finally Baze approached one of the masters who told him about a device they could try and acquire for Chirrut, an echo box to help his situational awareness. 

That helped. It did. But it didn’t stop Chirrut from pushing himself too hard and too long while Baze could do nothing other than help or watch or, once when it was really bad, plead with Chirrut to stop, just stop. He had almost said, “Stop, love,” that day, almost let his tongue turn traitor but his words had faltered just before he got there. And maybe that was a mistake or maybe it was for the best. Chirrut had been so angry, at Baze and himself, that night.

Finally, a couple of years longer than Chirrut had thought it would take, he was becoming a full-fledged Guardian. With Baze at his side. The ceremony was quick and simple, a recital of vows to the Force and the temple, to always protect the city and the kyber. To protect those who needed it. Simple words and sacred duties. It was not long or ornate. It was over before Baze was even aware of it, and then he and Chirrut were headed back to their room in new robes.

The trip was unexpectedly quiet, neither Baze nor Chirrut saying much. The silence disturbed Baze a bit, and he found his mind wandering to the terrible idea that Chirrut might tell him it was over now. That they would always be partners, friends, brothers, but that their life belonged to the temple and Jedha. That there was no longer any room for them and their flights of fancy, their kisses and touches, their desperate scrambling in the dark that was so rewarding. His throat grew drier with every step they took so that by the time they were in the room, he thought it might close up on him, leaving him gasping for air as surely as that kind of admission from Chirrut would.

Once the door was closed, Baze just leaned against it, watching, waiting, trying to calm his breathing and the beat of his heart because he was sure that Chirrut could sense everything. Why was he being so quiet? Why was he making it so hard?

Chirrut settled onto the floor, quiet, contemplative. Something had been bothering Baze for a while. He did not need to be Force sensitive to know that. All he needed to do was know Baze, which he thought he did by now. Only he could not quite put his finger on what was wrong. When Chirrut was upset, he was open about it. He was as prone to ranting as he was to making a jest or meditating or practicing to get the energy out. Since he had found Baze, since he had lost his sight, he had gotten more emotive. Why not? Everything had felt safe.

Baze, however, tended to turn inward, grow quiet and sullen. Stoic, so stoic, Chirrut would chide him, tapping his fingers lightly on the other man’s thigh until he would smile or fuss in his gruff way. That he never meant. Because he liked the teasing, he liked the attention. The surest way to hurt Baze’s feelings was to ignore him or to just give the pretense of ignoring him. Sometimes Baze’s Force aura was stained just because he felt forgotten and ignored. Chirrut had to be careful about that. He had never met a soul as sensitive as Baze nor one that was so expertly guarded in body. It was as if the Force had looked at the whorls of his soul--delicate, barely thicker than a butterfly’s wing and just as liable to be hurt by a strong wind--and decided that it could only exist in the body of a man strong enough to shoulder the burden of the entire universe.

Yet he was not, his Baze, try as he might. So many days he was still that boy who had sat in that very room, crying while Chirrut embraced him. That was okay. That was alright. Chirrut wished he could shelter that boy, yes, but he also knew that this was just who Baze was, intrinsically. This was part of the man he had chosen, been drawn to. The man he never wanted to lose.

The man who, at that very moment, felt very far away from him. Chirrut reached a hand out to him, his name barely more than a whisper on his lips, “Baze.”

There was a shuffle as Baze finally moved, but it was slow, ponderous, like he was walking through mud. Baze was not as light on his feet as Chirrut was, but he had learned how to be silent and graceful. Yes, it had taken Chirrut tying bells into his braids to teach him, but he had learned. These days it was not normally his movements giving him away. This time it seemed like he was walking with a great weight on him, some heavy burden, and all Chirrut wanted to do was figure out how to lift it away, how to make the other man smile. This was a happy day; he didn’t understand what was wrong.

Chirrut realized that he was holding his breath, waiting for the moment that Baze twined his fingers through his own. “What’s wrong?” he asked, once the larger man had settled in front of him, their knees touching. It was their normal way of sitting, not because the room was that small but simply because it was what they had gotten used to over the years. The only time it was different was when Chirrut was grooming Baze’s hair.

“I am tired,” Baze said as though he actually thought that Chirrut might believe it. 

The smaller man frowned and moved closer, rearranging his limbs so that he had almost clambered into Baze’s lap, which made the larger man’s heart race even though he was able to keep his breathing under control. “Let me look at you,” Chirrut demanded, placing the hand that was not still tangled up in Baze’s to his face. “I know when you’re lying. I always do. I don’t know why you still bother trying after all these years.” The teasing faded away as his fingers brushed over the line that Baze’s mouth was set in, the crease of worry set in his forehead. Chirrut’s fingers immediately set to trying to smooth that line away. “What?”

“The Force hasn’t told you?” Baze asked, swallowing audibly. Having Chirrut so close could be discomforting. Not because he didn’t want him there, but because he wanted him there so much. And even closer. If Baze had his wish, he would have been able to surround the other man with his own body and never let him go. Ever. Plus he always got distracted looking at Chirrut. The eyes, the bright smile which was both sweet and mocking in equal parts, the way he would tilt his head just so. The man was a treasure. But maybe he was not his treasure, and that part made him want to weep until there was no moisture left in his body.

“The Force tells me many things, Baze, but it is still not so direct that it can tell me what is on your mind.” It sounded a bit like he was chiding, but it was soft like his fingers drifting over Baze’s cheek.

Baze wet his lips and cleared his throat and shifted his weight and looked away from Chirrut even though he knew better than anyone that the younger man could not see him. “With our appointment, I was thinking it might be time to move into my own room.”

Everything about Chirrut fell in the instant that those words left Baze’s mouth. It felt like his heart had imploded in his chest, and he was being sucked into a vacuum. He took both of his hands back, folding them in his lap, though he did not move away from the small space in between Baze’s legs that he had tucked himself into. “You are free to do what you wish, Baze. You always have been. But I want to say something.” He drew himself up, shoulders back, eyes almost aimed right at Baze’s. “You are a great, lumbering fool.”

That was not what Baze had been expecting to hear, and he choked a little, eyebrows furrowing as he frowned. “What?” he demanded, sure that there was no way he could possibly have heard that correctly. 

“You are a fool. Clearly. Even I can see it.”

“What!” his tone deepened, making the noise another one of those reverberating growls. At another time, Chirrut might have placed his hand on Baze’s chest to feel it travel through his body, but he simply sat there, arms folded, no smile on his lips or in his eyes.

“We are not Jedi. We do not forbid attachments. You do not have to leave simply because we are Guardians now.” There was anger on Chirrut’s face, which was something Baze was not used to seeing. Frustration, yes, especially in the days following the loss of his eyes, but not actual, real anger. Chirrut was a living reminder to look for the bright side. “You are a fool.”

Baze blinked, unsure of what had just happened. It could be an all too common feeling when he was with Chirrut, one that made him feel slow and dumb, as though he were five steps behind and running but never able to catch up with a man walk dancing in front of him. “What?” he sputtered, his tone completely different than it had been the last two times, hesitant and afraid that perhaps he had read the wrong thing into those words.

Chirrut sighed as though having a discussion with someone who was only using variations on one word was something new and altogether foreign to him. Then he was pressed close to Baze again, hands on his cheeks, their foreheads together, lips ghosting over the other man’s as he spoke. “I love you, Baze Malbus.”

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of him but also like the inside of his mind had been set on fire. All Baze could do was blink rapidly in an attempt to keep the tears from forming even as he mouthed words that never crossed his lips because he couldn’t seem to remember how to speak. Words had never been his. They belonged to Chirrut. Like he did. So he did what he was better at; he went into action, great, big hands finding Chirrut’s waist to somehow pull him even closer as his lips found the other man’s. It was not a hasty kiss. It was not one of the desperate, greedy, bruising kisses that they had shared over the years. This one was slower, deeper, gentle. Baze savored it as though he had found the Force inside Chirrut’s mouth, and was trying to understand the secrets of the galaxy by teasing his tongue against it. 

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against Chirrut’s again, panting a little because his attention had been on things other than controlling his breathing. Like how close the man was and how much he wanted to divest him of that robe and rediscover every bit of his body, get him to say those words again. The hands on his face tracked across his features until the fingers of one hand were pulling at the lobe of his ear.

“Ow. What? You’re ruining the moment,” Baze gruffed, though he was too elated to have heard the words for there to be any real indignation in his voice. No, it felt like his heart had split open at the seams and was raining pure light into his chest. It felt like he had swallowed the starlight of Chirrut’s smiles and now they were such an integral part of him that they could never be parted again.

“Is that how you respond when someone says they love you? It’s rude.” That was his Chirrut.

Baze shook his head, sending the bells in his braids to tinkling. It had taken longer than he liked to admit to learn how to move without setting them off when he needed to. “I have been trying to tell you I love you for almost as long as I have known you,” he finally admitted, dragging the words out in the same ponderous way that he moved sometimes, frightful of landmines at every step. “I was worried you did not reciprocate.”

The laugh was clear and warm like a blanket spread over him, and the touch on his ear turned to affection. “I am sorry, Baze. I thought it was clear.” He could forget. How much Baze needed reassurance and proof of things. He had never considered that it might need to be said because as far as he was aware, he had been saying it a hundred million little ways since that first day. Yet it had never been words, and it had never been clear. 

“Does that make you a fool as well?” Baze asked.

“Me?” Chirrut leaned away a little bit, enough that he could touch a hand to his chest. “Never. I was merely testing you. I should have remembered how much you need instruction. Even though you are a Guardian now, I think I should keep you on as my ward. So that I can continue to teach you things.”

This time it was Baze’s smile that was as bright as starlight. “I accept your offer, Master Imwe.” The whole world felt buoyant, as though there was nothing that could possibly ruin it as long as they were together. Baze folded that feeling up and stored it in his heart. Bad days would come again; he was sure of that. No matter what they did or what they wanted, it would happen. That was part of the Force, after all. One day something bad would happen, something that would hurt and knock him to his knees. On that day, he would pull this memory out, unfold it, smooth the lines away and remember. Remember sitting on the floor of their room, holding Chirrut close and smiling because he was loved, and he loved. 

There were three things that Chirrut had known almost his entire life: that he was blind, that he was a Guardian of the Whills, and that he was in love with Baze Malbus. None of them meant any more or less than the other.

There was one thing that Baze had managed to believe in almost his entire life: that he was in love with and loved by Chirrut Imwe. There had been other things that came and went, but that one never faltered.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write a lot of fanfic anymore. I haven't Star Wars fanfic since the late 90s, but there is something about these two that makes me want to find all the words in the world for them and just fix everything. There are probably things that are wrong because I've only seen the movie once, haven't read any of the published materials, and have been mainlining fanfic for weeks. 
> 
> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sarkastically).


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